
PARKING SIDEWAYS
Yeah, we all saw it. He made sure of that. Parked it across two spots — sorta sideways, so nobody could hit his precious yellow car. And that sure as hell tempted most of us. I’d sidle my used gray Hyundai up next to it, but I knew that somehow, I’d get the blame — we ALL felt like it — but nobody dared. Because it was Greg. Greg Richerson, the bastard up on the second floor. He acted like he owned the place, because, well, he did.
We worked for HIM. And he made sure we knew it. He flashed that damn sports car by us — just so we knew he could afford it. He could afford it because we sold his stupid used cars. He sat in his flashy office with the plastic tree and fake wood desk and the blonde secretary with the fake boobs who fake-fawned all over him, just so he’d give her a raise. Stupid bitch. She never gave any of us a second look. Sometimes she’d get a ride in that stupid car. I saw him slap a cigarette right out of her hand once, when she started to get in that car with it. Holy smokes! You’d think he’d have some respect for a woman. No, he had more respect for that damned car.
I’ve been working there four years now, and I still can’t afford one of his patched up used cars. Me, I got that used Hyundai I bought from another dealer, and it’s a piece of crap. MISTER Greg won’t let me trade it in — he says it ain’t worth anything. Says he’d scrap it. Well, shit. With what he pays me, I can’t afford one of the cars I sell for him. What kind of crappy deal is that?
Everyone here is pissed off. I don’t even know why we stay. I guess I could look for work elsewhere, except there is nothing else to do except stock shelves at Walmart and they got people already hired doing that. They ain’t looking for nobody anyways. I could work at the Burger King, they pay more, likely, but then I’d have to work with a bunch of stupid teenagers — high school kids, and I couldn’t stand the way they look at you — a middle-aged guy like me, flipping burgers. Jesus.
So yeah, I come in, wear the damn tie he wants us to wear. Once he told me to stand outside with a sign and wave it around — about the 4th of July sale. I thought I’d die of the shame. Looked like a fool doing that — I could see the teenagers at that Burger King looking out the window at me, laughing. Nobody made them stand outside waving a stupid sign. But I did it, because Mr. Greg — well, you just did what he told you to do — or else.
And that day he came by with that car — just all wide smiles and teeth showing big, and to make it worse, he had got himself a cowboy hat — a white one. He looked like an idiot with that thing on — and when he managed to haul his ass out of the car, pulling on the window frame, and his legs came out and I started to laugh before I caught myself — no shit — he was wearing white cowboy boots! I about died. This guy really liked to pour it on. I bet his secretary upstairs, ole what’s her name, would tell him just what a real man he was, with those boots and that hat. Ooohhh yeah. And we’d be able to get together downstairs, once he closed that office door, and have ourselves a real quiet laugh. He didn’t know we laughed about him. But we did.
Thursday night, I was closing up and he came by to be sure I had done it right. Not like I hadn’t been doing it for four years now, and he flashed that sports car — driving up real fast and then turning the wheel fast so the tires spun, his secretary with him just laughing — both of them — I had to jump out of the way so I didn’t get hit. I guess he thought that made him a real man. I didn’t know I could hate a guy so much, but I really hated this one. And I really wanted to punch my old crappy Hyundai right into the side of that flashy sports car — just because.
That thing was his baby. He could fire me, sure. And likely he would. But boy, it would feel so damn good to just FEEL that fiberglass smashing in — I’d go for the side right near the driver’s door — and get some of the front end too — so he’d have to have the whole door and windshield replaced too — I’d do it exactly right. Just smash the living hell out of it. And I’d get out of my car and then walk right upstairs to his office and hand him an envelope with my resignation letter inside of it. He wouldn’t know yet about his car. He’d say something like “Henry, I’m sure sorry to see you go. If there’s anything I can do for you, be sure to let Betty here know,” and Betty’d giggle and pinch him on the arm, like a secret little code they had. And I’d say thanks and turn and walk out, feeling righteous. Yes I would.
I’d walk out past the ugly used cars, and the other salesmen would look at me in awe. Yes, I was the one who did it. Me. I’d walk past them out the driveway and onto the street. Got no car now, so I’d be walking. Walk on past the Burger King. And keep on walking. I could lift my head a bit now — proud now that finally in my life, I had accomplished something. I had put Greg Richerson in his place. His rightful place. I had killed his car. That stupid damn car. And I had left mine parked sideways into his, or what was left of his. Oh yes I did.

